I need to buy a small notebook and carry it around with me, instead of writing on the back of resumes and references. I guess that shows me how important this new search for employment is-ha ha. I just don't care anymore, at least while I have a little bit of $$ left. I like sleeping in late, I like listening to radio until midnight-I like sitting here on the University of Oregon Quad-Under shade, wearing a swingy brown velvet skirt-bare feet in this grass, toes alongside dirt and insects-Maybe I'm even sitting on decayed dog shit, I don't care. I always feel free when sitting on college campuses. Maybe it's nostalgia for those years in Carbondale-when I was young and felt I had more of an identity. Before 2 marriages, Before the panic disorder, Before the 175 pounds I now call my body, Before the cellulite and rolls of fat, Before the sometimes blank look in my eyes, Before the apathetic shuffle of my feet. I look at other women on the streets, on the bus, in the mall. Some of them look really worn down, trodden on by abuse and addiction-I know I don't look like that. What do I look like? A woman looking younger than her age? Red hair blowing around, eyes to the sky and looking at the treetops, walking briskly, with confidence, with some sort of purpose? Yes, that is me sometimes. But other times- I look sullen, shoulders rounded, teeth biting my lip absentmindedly, wearing unflattering outfits-my eyes looking vacant or overly emotional-red and teary, and I dwell on all my faults then, perceived and real flaws: no chin, weak jaw-line, no breasts, overweight, dull, plain, wearing glasses, neurotic, dulled, depressed, no self-esteem, isolation, hermetic, apathetic, no purpose, no drive, no creativity-just a sense that I'm shuffling around, going through a set of motions, or sometimes that I'm intertia, stagnant, standing still for years, watching everybody else live. God, this sounds so cliched. What is my purpose? Now, there's an original question! I'm tired of spinning my wheels, whatever that means. I need to take a leap, out of this town? Out of my relationship? Probably not-I need to step outside of MYSELF! But for now- I just want to sit here, in this late August breeze, listening to U2's "October", listening to the murmur of conversations as strangers pass by. I go back to the movie I saw today, which really touched me (and made me cry), "Crash"-We ARE always crashing into each other-but is that really true? Do we interact enough? In my case, the answer would be "no". Sometimes I can't even smile at strangers as I pass them by. I avoid conversations. I fold my arms in a defensive posture, I don't know if the world is coming apart at the seams, or if it's really just me that is.
2005-08-12 : CRASH
I wrote this while sitting outside this afternoon. The fact that I wrote on old-fashioned paper, whoa! It's been awhile. I can't believe I even react that way because I didn't write on computers until the late 1990's and I've been writing poetry/stories/diary entries since I was 11. Anyways, this is what I wrote:
